The Consequences of Caring
by Richefic
Summary: Sherlock might scoff at this 'caring' lark. But John Watson's situation cries out to be 'solved' and there is nothing that Holmes likes more than solving things. A series in four parts. 1 The Flat. 2. The Limp. 3. The Shaking Hand. 4. The Nightmares.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – Based upon and referencing material from the BBC's episode "A Study in Pink.

AN – Although this can be read as a stand alone it will be the first in a series of four stories all looking at why Sherlock decides to help John Watson readjust to civilian life.

* * *

1. The Flat (because the last thing Sherlock ever thought he wanted or needed was a flatmate)

Despite the extremely early hour and the inky darkness outside Sherlock paced, _impatiently_, his boots clicking on the floor of his lab at Barts, his long black coat flaring behind him in a dramatic manner that was almost, (but not quite) satisfying. Even though there was no-one to see he ran he hands through his hair to indicate his frustration.

Because there was _nothing _right about any of this.

"Sherlock, it's almost 3am. What on earth are you still doing here?" Mike Stamford's voice asked.

"The same question could be asked of you." Sherlock pointed out without turning.

"Now, I know something's wrong," Sherlock could hear the smile in Mike's voice as he stepped into the room. "It's not like you to ask a question you already know the answer to."

"You are a man with three young children under four. Your wife's father is ill which means she often has to leave you with the children to care for him during the day. Meaning that you frequently burn the midnight oil to keep pace with your research," Sherlock acknowledged before turning on his heel to face the other man. "But Lydia's father has been much better recently, meaning that you arrived on time at 08.35 this morning and left at 18.30. Yet you came back at 19.30 and are still here. Why would that be?"

"I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question?"

"You love your children so it's not their noise or crying. You are ridiculously attached to your wife so it would have to be something significant to stop you spending time alone with her after the little darlings are in bed," Sherlock thought aloud. "Which means that you are not alone, so who is it, Lydia's sister or her mother?"

"Mother," Mike rolled his eyes. "Come for two weeks. If the children didn't love her so much you might have another murder on your hands."

"Chance would be a fine thing," Sherlock scowled. "Nothing interesting has happened for _days, w_hole _entire_ days. I've been sitting in that flat staring at the walls with nothing to entertain me. Nothing occupies me, not the violin, not my experiments. I simply had to get out before those four walls utterly stifled me."

"You know, what you need? A flatmate," Mike offered. "At least having another person around to act as a sounding board would be a lot saner than talking to that skull that you 'borrowed' and never returned."

"A flatmate?" Sherlock's expression clearly showed his utter disdain for the very idea.

"That flat of yours has a second bedroom doesn't it?" Mike shrugged. "I know you don't need the extra money but you might appreciate the company."

"You mean someone who'll whine every time they find body parts in the fridge, a person who will expect me to waste valuable thinking time actually sleeping, because they take exception to my playing the violin at what they consider an unseemly hour and then will imagine that I want to make small talk about utterly trivial things that only feature in their dull little life?" Sherlock shook his head. "I hardly think so."

"Or if you look at it another way," Mike wasn't put off, being long used to the consulting detective's way of looking at the world. "Someone who will remember to do the shopping for things like milk and beans, a person who will give you a better outlet for your thought processes than scraping away with that bow and who can keep track of all those mundane every day things like the name of the Prime Minister that you don't have room for in that superior brain of yours."

"That's what the Internet is for," Sherlock pointed out. "Besides which your argument has one insurmountable flaw."

He couldn't deny that when he really thought about it the idea of another person around the flat was somewhat intriguing. Mrs Hudson was an absolute treasure, of course, but her conversation wasn't what anyone could call particularly stimulating. And there was only so much time that Sherlock could stand to be alone with his own thoughts. Having other people around to act as sounding boards, to let him organise and distil the information ricocheting around inside his head really was very helpful to him.

"It's not uncommon for people to hold interviews for a new flatmate," Mike addressed what thought was the issue. "Start with a large enough subject sample and even you should be able to find someone you can bear to live with. You've got a great flat in one of the best locations in central London. Trust me people will be biting your hand off."

"You are missing the point, _as usual_," Sherlock sighed with the tedium of having to explain things to others that to him were so perfectly obvious. That was only fun when he could show off because there was something genuinely challenging involved. "My point is who would want _me _as a flat mate?"

"I see," Mike tipped his head on one side as he gave that question the serious consideration that it deserved. "I suppose you could always offer a really low rent?"

"So, you took the flat then?" A couple of days later Mike Stamford's voice made John Watson look up from the newspaper he was reading in the canteen at Barts as he waited for Sherlock to finish up whatever he was doing in the morgue. "How's it going?"

"I don't know whether to kiss you or kill you." John admitted.

"He is something of an acquired taste," Mike acknowledged, as he set down his lunch tray and pulled out a chair to sit opposite his old friend as he began to eat. "But a man who chose to become an army doctor rather than an obscenely well paid consultant who went home every night to his wife and two point four children in leafy suburbia isn't looking for a quiet life."

"No, that's true. That's very true." John agreed.

"But it's working out alright for you?" Mike speared a potato, before looking up to meet his gaze. "You're not tempted to murder him in his sleep?"

"I'm not sure he does sleep," John reflected. "But no, it's fine, really."

If he was honest with himself after long weeks of dull and rather lonely rehabilitation, he was frankly rather flattered that someone as brilliant and intolerant of his fellow humans as Holmes genuinely seemed to value his opinions and appreciate his company, at least, most of the time. He was also enjoying trying to keep up with the other man both physically and mentally. One thing was for sure, life around Sherlock Holmes was never boring.

"So, how's Harry taken the news that you're sharing a flat with a highly functioning sociopath who solves murders for a living?" Mike cut into his thoughts.

"I haven't actually told her yet," Watson admitted. It was one of the benefits of modern communication. As long as Harry could text or call on the mobile she didn't actually need to know where he was living. "She's going to wonder how I can afford it. I'm rather wondering that myself."

When he had first met Sherlock he had assumed that he was some kind of postgraduate student or a struggling medical researcher who needed a flatmate to afford the high cost of accommodation in central London. Even when he realised Sherlock had been living in the flat for sometime he had initially assumed that his last flatmate had recently moved out.

"_Together we ought to be able to afford it". _

It hadn't taken long for John to realise Sherlock didn't actually need his money. Negotiating his share of the rent had been something of a farce. Mrs Hudson had been characteristically vague about what actually Sherlock paid. _"Oh, he just helps me out whenever I need it, dear."_ Sherlock himself had named a figure so ridiculously low that John had felt obliged to point out he'd paid more than that for his first London digs when he had been a student at Barts well over a decade ago, a revelation which had honestly seemed to surprise Holmes.

"_Really, I would have thought that to be a perfectly reasonable amount. Are you sure?"_

"_Quite sure," John had shaken his head at this chink in Holmes' knowledge. "You don't think about money much do you?_

"_Why bother when there are so many more interesting things in this life to be thinking about?"_

They had eventually settled on a reasonable amount that John could afford on his army pension. It would still mean he needed to think about getting a job or at least some locum work but it was worth it to feel he was paying his way, even if he was the world's only consulting detective didn't need his money. In fact, especially because Holmes didn't need his money, because even though he had saved the idiot's life, making him feel oddly protective of Holmes, he still wasn't quite sure why the man had taken to him so quickly.

"Why did he lie to me?" John wanted to know. "About the rent?"

"You'll have to ask Sherlock that," Mike shrugged, as he chewed a forkful of mashed potatoes. "I've long since given up trying to discover how his mind works."

"He called me a war hero," John mused, remembering their conversation in the cab. "But if his relationship with his brother is anything to go by he's not exactly motivated by a desire to serve Queen and country, which means he must have another reason for helping me out."

"He usually does," Mike agreed around another mouthful of food. "Have a reason, I mean. People who don't know him very well sometimes think he's impulsive, irrational even unstable. But that's just because most of the rest of us can't figure out what his motivation might be."

"Well, having met his brother, I suppose part of it could be that he understands something about having a difficult relationship with your siblings," John mad a face. "However well meaning they might be. Maybe, especially if they're well meaning."

His phone chirped. Pulling it out of his pocket his checked his messages.

_Lestrade called. Meet me in the lobby and bring an apple. SH_

"I have to go," John rose to his feet.

"I see you lost the cane," Mike glanced at his empty hand, before his gaze travelling to take in his more even gait as John came around the table. "And the limp, so, Sherlock was right then about it being psychosomatic?"

"Something like that, yes." John agreed.

"So?" Mike raised a brow. "How did the great Sherlock Holmes accomplish what the best doctors the British Armed Forces could provide weren't table to do?"

"That, my friend, is a whole other story." John nodded his farewell, as he pulled out enough change out of his pocket to purchase an apple from the fruit bowel by the cashier and headed towards the till.

In the lobby Sherlock was waiting with his usual impatience, his whole body quivering like a racehorse at the start waiting to be released from the stalls. His hands were clenching and unclenching in a bid to disperse a little of his nervous energy.

"Did you remember the apple?" He demanded.

"I thought you didn't eat when you were working," John observed, handing over the fruit as together they made their way out of the revolving glass door and onto the pavement. "Something about digestion slowing you down?"

"I'm not going to _eat _it," Sherlock was already flagging down a cab. "I need it to test a hypothesis."

"Of course you do," John murmured, as they climbed in the cab. "And how are you going to do that exactly?"

"You'll see when we get there," Sherlock looked out of the window. "So, did you get all the answers you needed?"

"Sorry? What?" John blinked at the rapid change in subject.

"From Mike," Sherlock's gaze was still fixed firmly on the passing streets. "This is the first time you've run into him since you moved into the flat. He was the prime architect of that arrangement. He is also someone who clearly has prior knowledge of me. Plus he has the advantage of being an old friend so you feel able to speak freely. Obviously, the two of you would talk about me."

"How did you know I was talking to Mike?" John scowled.

Sherlock just fixed him with an implacable look and raised a brow, silently demanding a response to his question.

"You know there's a reason people think you have this enormous ego." John retorted.

"Are you saying that you two didn't talk about me?"

"No, no, we did," John saw no reason to deny it. "He wanted to know how we were getting along."

It took Sherlock a moment to realise that John didn't intend on saying anything further on the matter. That was _intriguing_. Letting his brow furrow slightly in concentration, he applied his not inconsiderable intellect to the issue at hand. A small smile flickered across his expression as he came to the only logical conclusion.

"You're still here."

"Yes," John agreed. "Yes, I am."

Sherlock turned to smile at his newly acquired flatmate. John smiled back but there was something about his expression, it wasn't awkward or embarrassed. _Guarded_, Sherlock realised. It was guarded. Holmes pondered that for a millisecond before he arrived at what he believed to be the root of his friend's problem.

"You're wondering why I was looking for a flatmate when I obviously don't need any help with the rent."

"That thought had crossed my mind." John agreed.

In his mind Sherlock replayed the circumstances of their first meeting. He hadn't really taken Mike's suggestion of a flatmate seriously until the man had brought John Watson into his lab. The army doctor hadn't reacted the way that people usually did to Sherlock Holmes. That was _refreshing_. And Watson had been curious. Not to mention tenacious. Pushing until he got the answers he wanted. Holmes had liked that.

There had also been a number of other things he had deduced about John Watson that he hadn't chosen to share with him.

Judging by his age and ingrained military bearing, Watson had had a successful army career right up until he was shot. He'd also studied at Bart's. Both of which meant he was good at what he did, very good, but here he was looking for cheap accommodation rather than a medical job, which told Sherlock that he still thought of himself as a soldier at heart.

Then there was the way that he had swiftly offered his phone. Most people wouldn't have seen Sherlock's preference for texting as a valid reason to eschew the perfectly good landline. But Watson had passed over his mobile without question. For a man like Sherlock, whose complex needs were so rarely understood, that was extremely gratifying.

Also there was the manner in which he had stood his ground. Everything else about him had been like the shell of his former self. His slightly shabby appearance certainly wouldn't pass muster on the parade ground. His lack of interest in whatever medical thing Sherlock might be doing in his lab spoke volumes about his present state of mind..

But when Sherlock had pushed slightly, testing his mettle and his moral fibre, he had instinctively pushed right back, much to Sherlock's great joy.

"You ask the right questions." He admitted now.

"And that's a good enough reason, is it?" John sounded sceptical.

Sherlock considered that. It had been a good enough reason for him to obfuscate about the rent. Not a lie, certainly not. Together they could indeed afford the rent but deliberately misleading nonetheless. It had also driven him to make the effort to be more than usually personable when they had met at the flat. Even to shaking John's hand and making a half-hearted effort to tidy up.

Because it had hardly escaped his noticed that John was a doctor whose knowledge could assist him in his investigations, nor that his military background would ensure that he was less squeamish than most, or that his personable nature would be helpful when they had to deal with all those depressingly ordinary people. But most especially that Watson had a thirst for adventure that almost equalled his own.

"_I _need_ an assistant." _

When he had said those words to Lestrade he had half-expected Watson to jump in and offer his assistance. It was all so self-evidently perfect after all. When John had failed to react in the expected manner the 'cup of tea' reference had been explicitly designed to push him into action. Although, John's frustration had been evident and quite audible form the staircase, Sherlock had reluctantly had to admit that he had somewhat underestimated the emotional damage to be undone.

In his defence, it wasn't exactly his area. But still, there was far too much at stake here to allow a minor error throw him off his determined course.

So, he had resorted to a rather _unfamiliar_ subterfuge.

Helping.

As he bounded back up the staircase, Holmes felt a surge of unparalleled satisfaction. He knew exactly which buttons to press to get John to come with him. He also knew exactly how much the other man needed this and that he hadn't wanted something quite this much in a very long time. Arranging his features into an appropriate expression of realisation, he pushed open the door.

"_You're a doctor. Fact, you're an Army doctor_

"_Yes"_

"_Any good?"_

"_Very good."_

"_Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."_

"_Well, yes."_

"_Bit of trouble too, I bet."_

"_Of course, enough for a lifetime, far too much."_

"_What to see some more?"_

"_Oh God, yes."_

For reasons Sherlock couldn't quite identify he had wanted to help John Watson. Not just because it would be advantageous for his investigations. Or even because Holmes could see so much potential in that empty shell of a man and if there was one thing he could not abide it was a waste of intellect. But because John had qualities that Sherlock could not begin to understand, standing up to Mycroft and killing that Taxi Driver to save him came to mind. And yet he was still willing to tolerate his idiosyncrasies. He turned to smile at the man who was fast becoming his friend.

"It will do to be going on with, don't you think?"


	2. Chapter 2

2. The Limp (because there was nothing that Sherlock liked more than proving he was right)

AN - As a person who lives with limited mobility I had mixed feelings about Watson's limp being quite so magically cured. I rationalised it by deciding that ,whilst Sherlock would value a questioning mind over physical perfection, an imagined injury would offend his logical sensibilities.

* * *

Sherlock had known that Watson's halting gait was psychosomatic the minute the other man had limped into his lab at St Bart's, although, to be scrupulously fair, the man's symptoms wouldn't have fooled any half decent GP. The manner in which Watson moved was certainly laborious but it didn't correspond to what would be expected if there had been damage to either his leg muscle or major bones. Not to mention, the way he distributed his weight as he leant on the cane was simply all wrong. Holmes had fleetingly wondered why someone hadn't just subjected the doctor to some form of computerised gait analysis and forcibly pointed out the error of his ways.

"Maybe they've tried," Mike Stamford shrugged, when Sherlock voiced his opinion later the following afternoon. "You saw his face when you told him his therapist was right about it being psychosomatic. He thinks he knows better. John Watson always was a very stubborn man. "

"He would have to be to think wearing that ghastly sweater as a good idea." Sherlock retorted.

"Admit it, you liked him."

"I need to know what regiment was he in."

"You do understand," Mike raised a brow. "That not everyone you meet is automatically some kind of suspect don't you?"

"His injury wasn't in his leg, any fool could see that," Sherlock's brain couldn't let that go. "But it was serious enough to invalid him back to England and end his military career. So, the question is how was he injured?"

"All I know is he said he got shot," Mike admitted. "Did you notice his hand?"

"One problem at a time," Sherlock dismissed that. "He's a doctor so has above average intelligence, not to mention more than a passing knowledge of human anatomy. He knows his leg shouldn't hurt. But it _does_. He's also a soldier so he wasn't traumatised simply by the fact of being shot. He'd be used to being under fire, treating bullet wounds, so it has to be something else. What would that be?"

"Does it matter?" Mike asked.

Sherlock gave the other man a sharp look. Some people looked at Stamford's affable nature and expanding girth and saw a man gone to seed before he had ever realised his full potential. Holmes saw a man who was utterly content with his life who liked to use his superior wit to force his students to draw their own conclusions. It never failed to amuse Sherlock when Mike tried the same trick on him.

"He's your 'old friend', a person might have thought you would have wanted to do everything you could to help him." He probed.

"Which is why I introduced him to the most intelligent person I know." Mike shrugged.

"Because it _doesn't_ matter what _caused _the limp, just as long as it can be made to go away." Sherlock realised.

"The John Watson I used to know when we were students was as brave as a lion, as loyal as a spaniel and as mad as a bloody hatter," Mike spoke with true feeling. "The bloke I bumped into in the park yesterday looked more like he was heading for an early grave. His parents are dead, he's not going to go to Harry for help and there isn't anyone else. That seems like a bloody shame, don't you think?"

_Courage. Loyalty. Insanity._

Those were qualities Holmes could do a great deal with, under the appropriate conditions.

"I'm not his therapist, or his mother." He pointed out.

"A man walks into your lab with an injury that has no physical cause, his training says he should know better, his career choice tells you that he's not the type to take the line of least resistance. It's a problem which by all normal parameters shouldn't exist," Stamford gave him a knowing look. "You're not going to pass up the chance to have a crack at that."

"Oh, I think I can do rather better than 'have a crack at it'" Holmes smiled.

* * *

As he swept up to the doorstep 221b Baker Street in his customary Black Cab, precisely at 7pm Holmes was momentarily surprised to see Watson making his painstaking way along the pavement, clearly having walked from the direction of the nearest tube station. Sherlock wrinkled his nose of the very thought of all those long tiled corridors, maddening escalators and endless stairs. Making his way amidst the hoards of teeming humanity at this time of night would have been particularly taxing. Traversing the underground was a method of Darwinian selection at the best of times. For a person with limited mobility it was akin to descending into Dante's inferno.

"_Hello."_

"_Ah, Mr Holmes."_

"_Sherlock, please."_

The courtesy seemed to be the least he could offer when up this close he could see the beads of sweat on the man's brow from route marching himself half way across London. Yet Watson's handshake was firm and his expression was warm and welcoming, not transferring any of the resentment he must be feeling at going in the blink of an eye from being a career army officer who made life and death decisions to an unemployed civilian who was almost totally reliant on the compassion and charity of others. There wasn't even any residue envy towards the flashy git who had just so thoughtlessly rolled up in a cab.

Every iota of which made Sherlock loath the damned _useless_ and totally unnecessary limp even more.

It would be different if it was a _genuine_ physical injury. Sherlock had never been one to care very much about outward appearances. He noted then, catalogued them, even drew conclusions from them, but it was always the mind, the intellect and the challenge of understanding that enthralled truly him. If Watson had been shot in the hip, his innominate bone shattered and painstakingly pieced together with metal pins, Sherlock would have bent his considerable intellect towards ensuring that the former soldier had the freedom to manage his life without petty hindrance or narrow minded prejudice.

This was different.

So, Sherlock bounded up the stairs into the flat, hoping to encourage Watson as the man followed slowly behind. He paced back and forth across the flat, pretending not to notice as this time John gave into his alleged infirmity and sank gratefully into the stuffed armchair. Sherlock wasn't the least bit prepared to make allowances for something that didn't _actually_ exist. So, when the man appeared happy enough to resign himself to reading the paper with tea and a couple of Mrs Hudson's biscuit's he had positively dragged him out to assist at his crime scene. Glancing at the other man as he settled himself awkwardly into the cab beside him, Holmes couldn't stop himself.

"It's too short."

"Sorry? What is?" John blinked at him.

"Your cane," Sherlock nodded at the offending article. "It's too short. When you walk your right shoulder is significantly below your left. For a mobility aid to be effective it should ensure that both your shoulders are level when you walk. Why didn't your doctors notice that do you think?"

"I have no idea," Watson didn't look like he particularly wanted to pursue the subject. "But I expect you're going to tell me."

"Me?" Sherlock looked honestly surprised. "No. Not at all, I was just thinking out loud. I do that a lot. Some people find it annoying."

"Right," John's hand tightened a little around the Hospital issue cane as he looked away, indicating that subject was closed. As the sun began to set and the sights of London merged into darkness, he barely noticed the passing scenery, as he considered the past couple of months. "My therapist thinks I'm using the crutch as a crutch, which would almost be funny if it wasn't my life she talking about."

"How bad is the pain?" Sherlock asked.

"It comes and goes," John evaded. "I thought you agreed with my therapist that it was all in my mind?"

"I did," Sherlock agreed. "I do. That doesn't mean it can't be painful. The human brain is a fascinatingly complex organ, perfectly capable of making a person experience all kinds of unpleasant sensations."

"That's certainly true."

"Here." Sherlock fished a yale key from an inside pocket. "You'll need this."

"A key?" John hesitated. "To the flat?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No, no, its just I hadn't really decided yet," John made a face. It wasn't like the problem was just magically going to disappear anytime soon. He might as well face it. "I mean, it's a really nice flat but the stairs might be a problem, there's really quite a lot of them. I should probably be looking for something on the ground floor, maybe nearer to the tube."

"I see."

Sherlock looked out the cab window and John felt oddly disappointed that the other man hadn't tried harder to dissuade him. He had the feeling that life with Holmes would be maddening, annoying, sometimes totally infuriating, but he doubted that it would ever be dull. Since John had returned home from Afghanistan people had been kind. Sometimes, far too kind, John couldn't help but wonder when he had become the person old people wanted to help across the road, or how his life had suddenly become defined by his disability rather than his abilities.

"_John, you don't mind if I call you John, do you?"_

How many times had he been asked that? Their well meaning kindness stripping away both the rank he had worked so hard to earn and the medical qualifications he had studied so long to achieve in one fell swoop. It was almost as awkward as trying to have serious conversations about his future career decisions when dressed in nothing but striped pyjamas, a plaid dressing gown and a pair of fur lined slippers.

"If I can convince you that the stairs won't be a problem, will you take the room?" Sherlock's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Yes, I suppose so." John agreed, after a moment. "Yes, I will."

He didn't bother pointing out that he wasn't the easiest of men to convince. Or that Holmes was aiming to accomplish something that weeks of therapy hadn't been able to address. He imagined the man already knew that. He did wonder how he might try to accomplish it. John didn't think Mrs Hudson would be too keen on them installing a Stannah Stair Lift. Equally, Holmes didn't seem the type to put much faith in hypnosis. Acupuncture seemed a little more his style but John drew the line at that. He had already had more than enough holes made in him for one lifetime.

"_OK, you've got questions." Sherlock commented._

"_Yes," John surprised him. "Where are we going?"

* * *

_

Contrary to popular opinion Sherlock Holmes was not entirely oblivious to the feelings of others. The man who could catalogue every detail of a person's last movements from their corpse, or tell someone's life history from their choice of wardrobe, could hardly fail to notice the behaviour of the people in his immediate vicinity. A lot of the time he simply ignored their activities as beneath his sphere of interest. On occasion he was genuinely perplexed by their illogical reactions. But most like Donovan and Anderson were tediously predictable. On the other hand, John Watson rarely reacted like Holmes expected, which would make convincing him that Holmes was right and he was wrong infinitely more challenging.

Holmes liked a challenge.

And he knew how to multi-task.

Even as he processed the crime scene a good part of his attention was occupied by observing Watson. It was clear as they spilled out of the taxi that he wasn't satisfied with just hanging on Holmes' coat tails. His questions indicated that he needed some sort of role to motivate him and that he had a strong desire to feel useful or valued.

Despite his rather endearing tendency to swoon like a teenage girl over some pop celebrity every time Sherlock outlines his deductions, they had also established at their first meeting that he was too stubborn to believe something just because Sherlock told him it was true, which meant he would need to show him.

Watson's interest in the crime scene ensured he didn't complain or demur at climbing the mammoth staircase. Instead, in the spite of the brisk pace set by Lestrade he had easily kept up as they ascended. But with the adrenalin waning he was positively awkward about coming down. So, it was imperative to keep him moving and motivated.

Sherlock grinned, even as his sharp hearing picked up the pained, _tap, step, shuffle,_ of Watson making his much slower way down the stairs. He could work with that. First he had to find the pink suitcase and that was too tedious and painstaking a search to suit his purposes for Dr Watson. But after that he knew he had now devised a scenario that would force Dr Watson to overcome at least some of his demons.

"Sherlock, hold on a minute," Lestrade caught up with him just as he was leaving the building. "If you're going to make that poor bloke trail around after you, don't you think you should at least wait for him?"

"He was a solider in Afghanistan," Sherlock pointed out. "He doesn't need mollycoddling."

"Afghanistan?" Lestrade frowned. "So, he was shot then?"

"Very good, Lestrade, you should be a detective," Sherlock scoffed. "He's going to be working with me from now on. So, I would appreciate it if you could ensure that he gets unhindered access to crime scenes and that Anderson and Donovan keep their petty opinions on the matter to themselves."

"He's going to be working with you?" Lestraste blinked. "Now wait a minute. We need to talk about this. Is he even a real Doctor? And I mean the medical kind, not some sort of academic type."

"His name is John Watson. He trained at Barts. I'm sure you can use your considerable resources to find out whatever it is you need to know to put your mind at rest. Now, if you will excuse me there is somewhere else I need to be."

"Hold on," Lestrade found he was speaking to Holmes rapidly retreating back. "You're just leaving him here?"

Sherlock never failed to be amazed by ordinary people's ability to focus on insignificant detail at the expense of what was truly important. Right now he was entirely focused on finding the pink suitcase. He needed to establish a radius and search every possible location. It couldn't be that far away and it might just be the lead they needed to get the upper hand.

"He's not an invalid." Holmes pointed out.

"Are you sure about that?" Lestrade called after him. "I thought you were supposed to be observant."

* * *

John Watson paused for a moment as he closed the black heavy door to 221b Baker Street behind him and looked up at the apparently insurmountable flight of stairs. His mood was not greatly improved when his phone chirruped yet again.

_Why are you standing in the hallway? SH_

Watson sucked in his cheeks, not sure whether to be touched that Holmes had noticed he had come in or infuriated that the man had to all intents and purposes dumped him at the crime scene, forcing him to make his painfully halting way in the direction of the high street, so was he focused on dragging his injured leg as he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, that at first he hadn't even registered the serial ringing of the payphones. By the time the mysterious black car had pulled up at the kerb it had been almost a blessed relief to sink into its soft leather seats.

_I'm wondering if I'm going to have to shoot someone in the next few minutes. JW_

Sherlock felt a smile tug at his lips as he read the cryptic message. There were so many ways that could be interpreted as the other man was no doubt aware. Watson was obviously less than happy that he had left him at the crime scene without so much as a word. In future it might be prudent to at least let him know he was leaving. It also reflected Watson's military background. Holmes had told him that the rendezvous might be 'dangerous' so checking out the lay of the land was a sensible tactic.

What intrigued Holmes was that Watson had made no reference to his leg, even though his physical discomfort was without doubt the root cause of his irritability.

_The coast is clear. I think Mrs Hudson had gone out."_

The episode only served to convince Sherlock that the sooner they could dispense with the increasingly inconvenient fiction of that blasted cane than the better for all. Especially once he realised that Mycroft of all people was taking an interest. So, he lulled Watson into a false sense of security by assuring him that Northumberland Street was just a five minute walk. As they settled into Angelo's he was gratified to see John take off his coat and lay that metal monstrosity aside. Although, he was mildly perturbed to see how genuinely hungry Watson was as he tucked into his meal.

He wondered fleetingly if John's condition was causing him to burn many extra calories. Or if that was the first real meal the man had eaten that day. If so it made his moral stance in refusing Mycroft's most likely not inconsiderable stipend seem rather admirable. That kind of loyalty wasn't something he was accustomed to and it made Sherlock all the more determined on his present cause of action.

And then they were off.

"_Come on, John. We're losing him."_

In the event, his hypothesis worked even better than he could possibly have imagined, the urgency of the situation had the soldier in Watson reacting before the injured civilian had time to collect his thoughts, the thrill of the chase fired sufficient adrenalin for him to overlook his apparent infirmity, the constant movement and ongoing motivation pushed him right out of his comfort zone and beyond. Holmes had thought that the stairs and the fire escapes would be enough of a challenge but the leap across the rooftops was really quite impressive.

When they finally arrived back at Baker Street, John collapsed back against the wall in sheer exhilaration. He felt more alive that he had in months. The adrenalin, coursing around his system, the elevated heartbeat, the sense of adventure, and the sheer feeling of being alive reminding him of a way of life that he had believed gone forever. Even joking with Holmes was reminiscence of the camaraderie of his regiment.

"_Mrs Hudson, Dr Watson will be taking the room." Holmes was not so smug as utterly delighted._

"_Says who?" John had blinked._

"_Says the man at the door." Holmes has nodded as the door bell had chimed._

Despite the fact that Homes was looking quite so inordinately pleased with himself, it wasn't until John had opened the door and seen Angelo holding up his cane that he realised _exactly_ what Sherlock had done for him. And then there had been Lestrade and his 'drugs bust' and the cabbie with his pills and after that mad chase through London and the shooting. So, it wasn't until they were sitting down to their Chinese that John saw his opportunity.

"I don't think I ever said thank you for this." He nodded at his leg.

"Not at all," Sherlock waved away his gratitude. "After tonight, I'd say we were more than even."

"Even so," John insisted stubbornly. "I appreciate it, really."

"So, can I take it this means you will be moving in?" Sherlock was mildly surprised to realise how much he wanted that.

"How does tomorrow sound?" John suggested with a smile.

"Un-necessarily complicated," Holmes decided. At Watson's questioning look he elaborated. "You're a career soldier. Since you left home you have never lived anywhere but base housing or postings abroad. Therefore all your belongings can fit into a kit bag or a couple of suitcases. Most recently you've been living in the rehabilitation centre. It hasn't felt like home or that you belonged. So you have barely unpacked. Therefore it makes perfect sense to call round and collect your things as soon as we finish eating so you can move in tonight."

"I like the sound of that." John decided. "To life at 221b Baker Street."

Together they raised their glasses of beer in a toast and Holmes pretended not to notice as the adrenalin wore off and Watson's hand shook with a violent tremor. That was a problem for another day and tomorrow would come soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

AN - Many thanks to everyone who has added this to their alerts, favourites and especially reviewed. Its extremely daunting to enter into a new fandom so thank you so much for your support and feedback. It's great to know what you're liking. Hope you continue to enjoy this chapter. The final instalment (and my personal favourite) will be up over the weekend.

* * *

3. The Shaking Hand. (Because Sherlock knows there are only so many bullet holes in the wall that Mrs Hudson will forgive)

"Oh damn, _ouch_, damn it."

Sherlock didn't look up or otherwise acknowledge the muted sounds coming from the kitchen, he simply continued to listen as John Watson held his scaled hand under the cold water tap for considerably less than the recommend ten minutes, before mopping up the spill created on the countertop when the boiling water had slopped over the edge of the mug as John had attempted to squeeze the teabag against its side with his intermittently shaking hand.

"I made tea," John announced, after a few moments, as he used his good hand to put a mug down beside Sherlock. "There's some biscuits if you want."

"Aren't you having any?" Sherlock asked, his eyes never leaving his laptop as John moved to the armchair. "And what kind of biscuits?"

"Um, chocolate digestives, I think and I had a cup earlier," John hedged. "With Mrs Hudson."

Holmes almost smiled. John was getting better at evasion. He most likely had had a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson earlier, probably more than one if the amount of time he spent with her was any indication. Just not within the last hour or so. But then the tell tale splash of dark red across the back of John's hand, not quite hidden by his shirt sleeve, was enough to sober him. It looked red raw and decidedly painful. And Holmes already knew his flatmate well enough to know he would stubbornly ignore the injury.

"I need your help with an experiment." He decided.

"You need my help?" John sounded faintly amused. "I don't need to donate any body parts do I?"

"Just your tongue and it can safely remain attached to the rest of your body. In fact it is imperative that it does, the fate of a man's reputation depends upon it."

"I didn't know you had another case." Watson mused. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

It wasn't exactly a lie, Sherlock rationalised. His reputation was very important to him and if he couldn't find a way to treat Watson's injury without arousing the other man's suspicions then his opinion of his own abilities would be severely tarnished. Not that he had actually problems with lying. He was quite good at it in fact, but John had proved rather testy about the whole subject. So, where ever possible he tried to avoid telling him a direct untruth.

Sherlock considered his options. John was a doctor after all. Using an icepack would be too obvious, ditto for the application of cold water. That old wives tail of smearing a burn with butter would do more harm than good. He thought Mrs Hudson might have some kind of spray somewhere. She had tried to douse him with it once when one of his experiments exploded a little too much. But the legend on the can might be a bit of a give away.

"Sit." He decided.

It took a few minutes to find an adequate number of clean cups and a sufficient diversity of drinkable liquids. But in relatively short order he had arranged a row of receptacles in front of Watson who was eying them with a mixture of curiosity and distrust. It took a bit of fast talking and a lot of creative license to get John to drink the contents of all of the cups. However, in less than five minutes Sherlock felt the warm glow of satisfaction that he had secretly dosed the doctor with enough dissolved painkillers to take the edge of his discomfort.

Still, as an actual_ solution_, it was far from satisfactory. There had to be more he could do.

Later that day, Watson came to a dead stop in the middle of shrugging out of his coat as he noticed a new and totally unexpected attention to their flat sitting proudly on the kitchen table. He had honestly thought that Sherlock had lost the power to amaze him with what he might come across in the kitchen cupboards or the fridge. It seemed that he had been wrong about that.

"You bought a plant."

Watson eyed the bright green stubby little plant carefully as if it was a mirage. With its healthy growth and cheerful red ceramic pot it wasn't the usual kind of dead or decaying item Sherlock could generally be expected to bring home. In fact, it looked positively homely and domestic. Very slowly he fully removed his coat and carefully set it aside, as if any sudden movement might cause the alleged plant to explode.

"Hmm? Oh yes," Sherlock barely looked up. "I needed it for an experiment. I'm done with it now. You can throw it away if you want."

Watson eyed the little plant carefully, turning it around to check the label, to confirm what he was pretty sure he already knew. It was an Aloe Vera plant which was famous for its sap or juice. It was used in a lot of natural skincare products for its cooling properties and was often used as a remedy for sunburn. John remembered his mother had always kept one in the kitchen as first aid against the minor burns or scalds of cooking.

"No, no, that's alright. I think we should keep it."

Given the number of experiments Sherlock insisted on conducting in the kitchen, verses his complete lack of common sense, Watson figured they could do with all the help he could get. It was a miracle that the man had survived virtually unscathed thus far. Who knew when he might have to administer some emergency first aid, if the price he had to pay for that was to remember to water and occasionally feed the a plant he decided it was well worth it.

To his surprise the little plant thrived.

Even on those nights when he spent time at Sarah's he would come home to find that it had been carefully watered and sometimes turned so its plump leaves could get the best of the sunlight. At first he thought it must be Mrs Hudson popping in to take care of it. But even when she went on holiday to visit her sister the little plant continued to be lavished with care and attention. Watson just knew that there was a mystery there. Sherlock never did anything without a reason.

He wondered what it might be.

As the days passed Sherlock continued to search for other more permanent solutions to Watson's intermittent tremor. He had quickly come to the same conclusion as Mycroft that action and adrenalin fired John Watson up to optimum performance and utterly stilled the tremors. Given his caseload therefore a lot of the time the problem simply took care of itself. However, not even the great Sherlock Holmes was busy all the time and in those periods of quiet John's shaking hand began to be as much as a concern to him as his own interminable boredom.

His sharp eyes didn't miss the way that John sometimes struggled to do up his coat until his frustration with his infirmity boiled over and he threw the warm jacket aside and went out into the chill of a London autumn without it. He noticed the way Watson tried to favour his right hand, but then he would become absorbed in a task and absentmindedly reach for something with his left, only to fail to grip it securely sending it flying. Holmes thanked all the powers that be that the man used an electric shaver otherwise he could easily have taken his own head off.

Of course it didn't help that other people could be thoughtless idiots.

"What the blazes is that?"

Sherlock continued to strip off his scarf, coat and gloves, with quick efficient movements even as he frowned at the small rubber ball decorated with a map of the earth which had appeared in the middle of the coffee table, as if his piercing gaze alone was enough to force it to take cover.

"It's a stress ball," Watson supplied, in a clipped, emotionless, tone. "You're supposed to squeeze it."

His curiosity piqued, at least for the moment, Sherlock flopped onto the sofa and picked up the little ball, giving it an experimental squeeze or two. It flexed quite pleasingly under his hand, so he did it again and a third time, until he decided he was bored with that. Looking around, his expression brightened as he saw the smooth expanse of wall.

"_Thunkity, Thunk, Thunk."_

"_Thunkity, Thunk, Thunk."_

"_Thunkity, Thunk, Thunk."_

"_Thunkity, Thunk,_ Hey!"

Sherlock looked up in protest to see that Watson had planted himself in the ball's path and was not holding it securely in his right hand.

"Here's a question for you. How well do you think it will bounce if I sliced it in two?" He asked tightly.

"Why did you buy it if the bouncing offends you?" Sherlock wanted to know. "That is what balls tend to do. I would have thought that was obvious even for you."

"I didn't buy it."

John tone indicated that he considered the subject firmly closed, as he put temptation and the ball out of Sherlock's reach on the mantelpiece and took himself off into the kitchen, obviously trying to put some distance between them, actions which, of course, only served to fuel his flatmate's insatiable curiosity. The therapeutic role of the ball for the purpose of exercising Watson's weakened left hand had hardly escaped him. Nor had the fact that Watson seemed less than enamoured with the gift.

"So, you didn't buy it. Then who did?" He mused. "It's unlikely to have come from Sarah. It's a caring gift but not very romantic and the two of you are still in that flowers and chocolates stage. It's possible that Harry sent it to you, but you've gone out of your way to down play your injuries to her, so that's .."

"Wait a minute," Watson interrupted. "How do you know, I've been downplaying my injuries to Harry?"

"I read your text messages," Sherlock said blithely, lifting a brow at the dark look that revelation placed on the other man's face. "Was I not supposed to do that? We're flatmates now I thought we were supposed to share everything."

"You know, you really are the limit," Watson turned his back, as he stalked back to the kitchen.

"Anyway, as I was saying," Sherlock wasn't the least bit discouraged. "That, plus the lack of packaging in the wastepaper basket from any courier and the fact that the postman hasn't been yet puts Harry out of the frame. Mike Stamford might think of it, but he would worry about offending you. So, who would be prepared to give you something that they know will offend you? Mrs Hudson is thick skinned enough to think she was doing you a kindness, but she's been out all day, which just leaves your therapist, which would also explain why you're so annoyed."

"Actually, you're wrong." Watson came to stand at the foot of the couch.

"Am I?" Sherlock frowned. "No, I can't be. I'm never wrong."

"You were wrong about Harry, remember? You thought she was my brother."

"There is that," Sherlock huffed. "But I was right about everything else. Are you sure your therapist didn't give it to you and you're just too embarrassed to tell me?"

"No," John looked at the infuriating and annoying man that had also proved to be a surprisingly good friend to him. "I'm too embarrassed to tell you that that one of my patients gave it to me because they were worried about _me_."

"Ah."

Sherlock considered that. He could see how John might find such a situation awkward, a little embarrassing even. It certainly wasn't particularly constructive as it only served to re-enforce Watson's feelings that he was a shadow of his former self. Certainly, the recurring nightmares he still suffered from on a regular basis was more evidence than the consulting detective required to appreciate that his friend was in real need of his assistance.

He did his best to help.

A few not entirely un-planned explosions in the kitchen were designed to keep Watson on his toes. When the man was pre-occupied with putting out the occasional fire and exercising his not inconsiderable vocabulary for profanity his hand didn't shake. From Sherlock's point of view the bullet holes in the wall, which brought Watson running as if the end of the world was nigh, had been particularly successful, although, Mrs Hudson had been less than pleased with the damage to her wall and Watson had accused him of being higher than a kite.

"We already talked about that," Sherlock had said stiffly, clearly somewhat offended that John would bring the subject up again. "And I agreed that I would seek out alternative methods of stimulation. That's _why_ I'm using the gun."

To say that Watson had been surprised to discover that his new flatmate had a reputation for using recreational drugs was something of an understatement. Not least because he couldn't imagine how the man could produce that clarity of thought whilst under the influence of anything stronger than those blasted nicotine patches. But also because he couldn't fathom how a man of logic and science could willingly surrender himself to the vagarious of chemical control. In Lestrade's presence he had bitten his tongue, but as soon as he could he'd voiced his concerns.

"_Look, we need to talk about the drugs."_

"_You don't approve." Sherlock surmised._

"_It's not a question of approving or disapproving," Watson shook his head. "As a doctor and your flatmate you'll forgive me if I find the idea of coming home and finding you out of your head on some unknown substance more than little disconcerting."_

"_Why John," Holmes had positively beamed. "I do believe you're worried about me. How sweet." _

"_I am beginning to see why Mycroft thinks he needs the whole of the secret service to keep track of you," Watson allowed with the glimmer of a smile. "Seriously though, if drugs were found in the flat there's also my medical licence to think of, not to mention my professional reputation."_

"_That would never be a problem," Sherlock dismissed the idea. "Lestrade would never actually press charges. He needs me too much."_

"_Lestrade isn't the entire London police force. Nor is he the General Medical Council."_

"_That's what Mycroft is for. He can make things like that go away. I suppose he has to be useful for something."_

"_And if you drop dead because your blood pressure is too high or your heart is speeding too fast? Will he make that 'go away' too?" John spoke sharply. "Look, I'm sorry, but if we can't agree about this then I'm going to have to rethink the arrangement."_

"_You really are worried about me," Sherlock looked genuinely surprised and a little touched at the realisation. "Why didn't you just say so?"_

"_I don't know," John felt a little awkward at the strength of feeling he'd revealed. "I suppose I thought the world's only consulting detective was more likely to be swayed by logic than me acting like a hysterical teenage girl."_

"_Actually, I rather appreciate your concern," Sherlock had looked almost as awkward as he had. "I'll look for other ways to stave off the mind crushing boredom."_

Even so, Holmes knew than the petty excitements that he could create between cases weren't enough to solve Watson's traitorous hand. They certainly weren't enough to keep him occupied. So, he needed to think of something else. A few hours on the Internet researching activities within a reasonable distance ruled out a number of activates including tank battles (hardly suitable for a war hero still haunted by nightmares) white water rafting (his coat was pure cashmere) and race car driving (two fully functioning hands definitely preferred).

And then he found it.

"What are we doing here again?" John looked around him curiously. Maidenhead wasn't that far from London, but it certainly some way out of Holmes usual sphere of operation "Is this a new case?"

"I need to test a theory." Sherlock informed him. "And I need your help to do it."

Watson took in the large expanse of water, the high percentage of ridiculously fit looking people strolling around in various colours of gortex and fleece, the large metal cage and the even larger crane to which it was attached and shook his head.

"No," He decided. "Just no."

"It's perfectly safe."

"That's good to know. I'm still not doing it," John was adamant. "But you have fun. Knock yourself out, which you probably will."

"I thought I already mentioned I needed you to come with me. The water is really quite deep, what is the worst that could happen?"

"When you are plunging, what?" John eyed the platform with a measuring eye. "Around two hundred and fifty feet with nothing but a bit of elastic tied to your ankles? Are you insane?"

"Actually, it's three hundred feet."

"Well that's it then, I'm definitely not doing it." Watson shook his head.

"You're quibbling over a difference of fifty feet?" Sherlock was incredulous. "You do realise that doesn't actually make any material difference to the amount of peril that you're in?"

"Is that your idea of encouragement?" Watson raised a brow.

"We both know you're going to do this," Sherlock brushed aside his concerns. "Can we just get on with it?"

"Look, I know you have this insane urge to fill every waking minute with some kind of adrenalin high," John argued. "But I had hoped that your run in with that taxi driver would have instilled in you a modicum of common sense. Not to mention some sense of self preservation."

"I was right." Sherlock defended his actions.

"No," John corrected with all the patience he could muster. "No, you were wrong."

"I may not have mentioned that I got Lestrade to analysis the pills."

"Of course you did," John supposed he shouldn't be surprised by that. There was nothing Sherlock hated more than an unsolved mystery. Of course, he hadn't been able to let it lie. And judging by the superior expression on the other man's face he had chosen correctly. John shook his head. For such an intelligent man, Holmes was remarkably good at missing the bloody obvious. "You were still wrong to play his game."

"I chose correctly," Sherlock defended himself. "I would have lived and he would have died. Don't you see? I outsmarted him? I won!"

"And you were still bloody wrong!" John's temper exploded. "Because as much as you deduced and determined and what the hell else it is that you do, the bottom line was you were guessing and you were about to gamble your own life just to prove a point to man who had already killed four times! Does the opinion of a murder really mean that much to you?"

"Alright," Sherlock turned on his heel and started to stride away. "You've made your point. This was a bad idea. I'm sorry I even tried to help you."

"Wait, you were trying to help _me_?" John's voice asked. "You weren't just trying to relieve the monotony of living inside your own brain?"

"You keep burning yourself and you can't do up your coat. You've broken the regimental mug that was the only souvenir you brought home from Afghanistan. You hate that people look with you with too much kindness and your therapist doesn't have a clue what she's dealing with. Of course, I was trying to help you." Sherlock exploded.

"I see." Watson spoke in a level tone.

"Do you?" Sherlock turned on his heel, his eyes blazing and his nostrils flaring. "Do you really?"

"I think so," Watson smiled at him. He looked up once again. The platform hadn't got any closer to the ground, but all at once the experiment seemed like a far more positive experience. As far as John was concerned he had already put his life in Holmes hands several times since they had first met. He supposed this wasn't really all that different. "So, shall we give this a try?"

The beaming smile his words put on Holmes face was all the answer he needed.

Together they sat silently through the safety briefing. Every time Holmes rolled his eyes Watson elbowed him in the stomach. Each time Watson bit the inside of his cheek, Holmes stepped on his insole. After forty excruciating minutes and the funniest video they had ever seen they were all kitted up, clipped into their harnesses and standing with their toes at the edge of the metal platform.

"That_ is_ a long way down." Watson observed almost clinically.

"It is, isn't it?" Holmes agreed. "Ready?"

"On three?"

"Three sounds perfectly acceptable."

"One, two, _three._"

At 60mph it took them just four seconds of pure speed and undiluted adrenalin to make it to the end of the special elasticised bungee line. The scenery sped past with impossible speed and the water sped towards then with terrifying rapidity. Both men hollered at the top of their lungs. It quite literally took their breath away.

"You never thought of paint ball as an option?" John panted when they were back on terra firma.

"You were a military doctor," Sherlock shook his head. "You worked on the front line in Afghanistan under live fire. You _got_ shot. I rather thought a bunch of slightly over weight financial services mangers blundering around in the New Forest, splattering each other with sun burst yellow and tripping over tree roots would be rather too tame for you."

Watson considered that for a moment.

"Good point," He grinned, a little manically. "So, same time next week?"

"Same time, _every_ week." Sherlock agreed, his own smile stretching across his face.

The two men looked at each other, their eyes bright, their pulses racing and the adrenalin still coursing through their bodies and both laughed out loud. As he pushed to his feet and offered Watson a hand up, Holmes was gratified to see that his left hand was rock solid. He could only hope that the day's excitement would also be enough to ensure that for once the former soldier had a restful night.


	4. Chapter 4

AN – Many thanks for all your support and encouragement, it's really helpful to know what people like about the story. This part has grown rather longer than the rest, so I'm posting the first half now, the conclusion will be up as soon as I've tweaked it sufficiently!

4. The Nightmares (Because there was nothing Sherlock detested more than a problem he couldn't solve)

* * *

Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes didn't like a challenge. He _lived_ for challenges, he positively sought them out, he absolutely relished them, he pined when they were absent, it wasn't too much of an exaggeration to say challenges were his life's blood at times they were the only thing that made him feel positively _alive_. Without challenges his daily life would become mind numbing boring and that was a fate almost worse than death.

What he _didn't _like was a challenge that he couldn't solve.

He knew every stage of Watson's nocturnal distress. At first, there would be the usual human sounds as the man settled under the covers, found a comfortable position and then his breathing would gradually slow into sleep. For some time he would sleep soundly. This stage was unpredictable. Sometimes it lasted as long as four hours, other times it could be less than thirty minutes. As yet Sherlock had been unable to ascertain any pattern.

Then it would begin.

In the dim grey orange light cast by the myriad of street lights that passed for darkness in central London Sherlock found himself drawn to the firmly closed door as Watson's breathing grew quick and shallow. His movements became agitated, sometimes a hand or foot making contact with the wall with a discernable _thunk_. Sherlock's mind helpfully filled in the details he could not see, the sheen of sweat on the man's forehead, the clammy palms, the rapid eye movement.

"You should go to him you know," Mrs Hudson advised him, one morning when John, looking tried and drawn, had left for work. "When he gets like that., I mean. It might help him. Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"

"Of course I am, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock assured her absently. In the rather telling silence that followed he looked up to see her regarding him with a disapproving expression. He smiled innocently at her. It did not do to offend Mrs Hudson. "What were you saying exactly?"

"That poor man," Mrs Hudson nodded in the direction John had taken. "The way he cries out, night after night. It's not right."

"It's a perfectly natural reaction to a stress of being wounded in action." Sherlock did his best to brush her concerns aside. "I'm sure his therapist has it all in hand."

"And you calling yourself an investigator," Mrs Hudson tutted. "His face is all pale and he has those big black circles under his eyes. You need to take better care of him. A nice cup of cocoa, that's what he needs."

Never one to reject a hypothesis before he had had the chance to fully test it out Sherlock made free with the catering department at Bart's and assembled the items required to make cocoa in his lab. On his first attempt, he scorched the milk ruining the sauce pan. On his second attempt he put a metal spoon straight into the hot milk and water he had just pulled out of the microwave and barely escaped a serious burn as the mixture erupted. By his sixth attempt he had turned to the internet for assistance and was carefully measuring out the component parts as if they were a scientific experiment

"Eureka." He murmured.

That night as John Watson sat on his bed and attempted to calm his rapid breathing and slow his racing heart he looked up in surprise as his door opened. The sight of Sherlock Holmes wide awake and still fully dressed at 3am wasn't in itself at unusual. But the slightly uncertain expression on his face certainly was. John imagined it had something to do with the ridiculously large stripy mug gripped tightly in his right hand.

"It's cocoa." Was Holmes only explanation as he set the steaming receptacle down on the bedside table. Adding helpfully, in case there was any doubt. "It's for you."

"I see."

John looked at the mug. Part of him was mortally embarrassed that his flatmate felt he needed cosseting like a distraught toddler. Another part that was still reeling from his nightmare felt slightly defensive. He had seen the worst humanity had to offer. That couldn't be fixed with a warm milky drink. But then he hadn't known that Holmes even knew what Cocoa was, never mind how to make it. Where had he got the milk? Not to mention that absurdly ridiculous mug.

"Thank you," He found he was smiling.

Carefully he picked up the mug and sipping gingerly, fully braced for dreadful burnt milk and bitter cocoa. To his surprise it was really rather pleasant.

"It's good. It's very good."

"Of course it is," Sherlock's confidence returned in full force at the praise. "You'll be able to go back to sleep now."

Left alone in his bedroom, John sipped thoughtfully at the rich mixture of chocolate and full fat milk and thought that in this instance, as in many others, Holmes confidence wasn't misplaced. For the first time in a long time, the idea of settling back under the blankets and surrendering to his own subconscious didn't seem quite so unappealing.

However, Sherlock's elation at his successful intervention didn't last long. He may have doubled the amount of rest Watson was getting each night, by enabling him to go back to sleep after the nightmares. But that was only treating the symptoms not the cause. Feeling slightly disgruntled at this realisation Sherlock pouted for a bit before he noticed that Watson always slept more peacefully if he dropped off in the armchair.

So, he watched a whole lot of more of that dreadful telly stuff with him, hoping the sheer tedium would do the trick, he played deliberately soothing tunes on the violin to lull him to sleep, he actively refrained from exploding anything when Watson was taking his rest to avoid waking him, but still the man stubbornly decided more often than not to take himself off to sleep in his own bed, which did nothing at all to address the issue at hand.

It was unexpectedly frustrating.

* * *

"So, how is he doing really?" Mike Stamford asked, the morning after he had been out for a beer or three with Watson in a local pub. "I mean, the cane's gone, the hand's stopped shaking, he's started dating and he's back to being as mad as a bloody hatter. But he's still seeing a therapist."

"It's the nightmares." Sherlock supplied.

"Ah," Stamford considered that. "Any idea what they might be about?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock was at his most sarcastic. "Being shot?"

"I suppose that would do it," Stamford agreed equably. "And obviously the therapist's not helping. Or he wouldn't still be seeing her. Can't you do something? You seem to have fixed everything else?"

"I made cocoa." Holmes defended his actions.

"So, that's what happened to all the milk, in the canteen" Stamford smiled. The idea of Holmes concocting the bedtime drink was oddly endearing. But on its own it would hardly solve the problem. "You know, when my children have nightmares, I usually try to head them off before they become enough of a problem to wake them."

"Really?" Sherlock tried not to look _too_ interested. It wasn't good for his reputation. "And how might a person do that?"

That night Holmes didn't hesitate. As soon as Watson's breathing changed he silently turned the handle and eased the bedroom door open. His brow furrowed as he surveyed the bedding, wrinkled and twisted around in a way that could not possibly be comfortable. Moving to the edge of the bed, he reached out a hand, letting it hover uncertainly in thin air before laying it carefully on Watson's arm and giving it a tentative pat.

"There, there." He realised he should probably add some thing else. "Go back to sleep."

To his surprise, Watson quickly settled under his touch. Sherlock felt an unexpected surge of warmth as the other man's expression smoothed over and slid back into a more restful sleep. Sinking down on to the bed, Holmes took in the resulting even breathing, slack expression, and stillness of movement as Watson now slept soundly with no small degree of astonishment. Who could have known it would be that simple?

He really was _very_ good.

Except, of course, he quickly realised there was a flaw to his solution. It only worked when Watson was near at hand. On those nights when he slept on Sarah's couch or Holmes was unexpectedly called away from 221b Baker Street Watson continued to suffer from broken nights. Deciding John would sleep better if he was physical exhausted, wherever possible Holmes took a detour, went the long way around, ran as as fast as possible, leapt over rails and jumped across buildings.

However, to his chagrin he had neglected to take into account that Watson had previously been a career soldier. Once his body had re-adjusted to having a sound leg and a functioning left hand all those years of military drill and PT had come to the fore. His natural physical fitness had ensured that he could clear any obstacle and sprint across deserted car parks, as fast as the next man, even if the next man _was_ Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"He's still not sleeping well," Mycroft observed shortly afterwards on one of those occasions when he turned up unannounced at the flat to solicit Sherlock's help in some government crisis or other. "You really need to address that. We both know that your activities can have certain inherent risks. He needs to be fully alert."

"Dr Watson is not your concern, Mycroft." Sherlock's tone was clipped.

"I'm merely thinking of your welfare," Mycroft retorted smoothly. "And his well being, of course. That really was quite a nasty injury he sustained."

"Bullet to his left shoulder," Sherlock supplied. "Yes, I know."

"Then you won't be requiring this," Mycroft surmised, as he pulled a manila envelope out of his inside pocket and slid it smoothly across the table between them. "Or will you?"

Sherlock looked at the envelope. He immediately knew what it contained. Everything Mycroft's contacts had been able to uncover about Dr John Watson. Family background, schooling, further education, early career, military service, girlfriends, significant others, and most importantly the report on the shooting that ended his military career and all subsequent surgery, psychological evaluations and ongoing treatment.

His fingers almost itched to take it. Information was the key to helping Watson. Armed with that much background he could ensure that the man never suffered another nightmare as long as he lived. But he already knew John well enough to realise that the man would see this as a huge breach of his trust and privacy, enough to fracture their growing friendship for good.

"Piss off, Mycroft." He declared irritably.

"As you wish," His brother pocketed the envelope and rose smoothly to his feet. I'll admit you have made some significant progress in addressing his other issues. However, I think you may find his nightmares, rather more of a challenge, if I might offer a word of advice?"

"Would it make any difference if I said no?"

Mycroft carefully schooled his expression. Sherlock's tone had been anything but receptive. Yet he had not actually refused to hear him out. It was as close as he would get to his little brother admitting that he needed his help. He really must be quite concerned about his new friend. And that in Mycroft's opinion was a more heroic achievement on Dr Watson's part than anything he had achieved during his military career.

It would seem that Sherlock _did _have a friend, after all.

"You might find it advantageous to tackle him directly about his specific problem," Mycroft supplied, as he prepared to make his exit. "Have you tried _asking_ him what the nightmares are about?"


	5. Chapter 5

AN - Thank you so much to everyone who has responded to this. I've really appreciated your feedback. Hope you continue to enjoy the final instalment. If anyone's interested I'm thinking of writing a 'sort of' tag to the Great Game because I really think Sherlock needs to reconsider his views on heroes after what John did! What do you think?

* * *

Sherlock paced more than usual as he considered Mycroft's words. When that didn't help he took up the violin and tried to lose himself in its complex melodies. He applied four nicotine patches to his bare forearm. Then he stared at the wall for a bit. This was not supposed to be happening. This wasn't supposed to be possible. He was Sherlock Holmes, one of the greatest minds of the 21st Century and he _really_ didn't like it when his brother was right.

It was all John's fault.

The man had never said anything about his twice weekly visits to his therapist. The first time he had gone, he had simply slipped on his coat and told Mrs Hudson he was popping out for an hour. It was only when Sherlock needed to borrow his phone almost half an hour later that he realised he had gone, although, it hadn't taken a great deal of deduction to ascertain his movements after the fact. According to Mrs Hudson he could have been a bit more tactful about that.

"_Where have you been?"He had asked, from his prone position on the couch, without bothering to open his eyes. "I needed to borrow your phone."_

"_I went out."_

_Sherlock was slightly surprised when nothing more was forthcoming. It wasn't like John to pass up the opportunity to comment on the fact that he was still lounging around in his pyjamas or fuss over the excessive nicotine patches. Instead, Watson had sat down and picked up the newspaper, in what to most people would be an obvious attempt to put an end to the conversation, which, of course, only served to pique Holmes curiosity. Genuinely interested now, he sat up and swung his legs around, steepling his fingers under his chin as he surveyed his new flatmate._

"_You've changed into a jacket and tie so appearances were important. Not a romantic liaison, you're only wearing your second best aftershave, but not a job interview either. Not with those shoes."_

"_Sorry, what's wrong with my shoes?" Watson scowled._

"_You chose the suede ones, rather than leather, so comfort over first impressions, which suggests this person already knows something about you, but not a friend or a family member, you'd meet them for lunch or a coffee, take your time. It's not like you have anything else to do."_

"_Yes, thank you so much for pointing_ that _out." The scowl deepened._

"_No, you told Mrs Hudson you would be gone for just over an hour. So, some kind of an appointment then," Sherlock continued as if he hadn't spoken, not noticing that Watson's mood was growing increasingly sour. "Not a haircut, that's obvious, nor the dentist, the smell does linger so, same for hospitals, you wouldn't go to a GP, like most doctor's you make the worst patient."_

"_I went to see my therapist," Watson told him, as he threw the paper aside. "There, are you happy now? I have to go twice a week. It's a thirty minute appointment. It takes fifteen minutes to get there and fifteen minutes to get back. Now would you like to know what colour underwear I put on this morning or can I have the least bit of bloody privacy?"_

"_I've offended you," Holmes realised. "Honestly John, its nothing to be ashamed of. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a recognised.."_

"_You just don't get it, do you?" Watson surged to his feet in frustration. His shoulder throbbed. His therapist had tried to make him talk about things he _really_ didn't want to re-visit, Harry had left him another unwelcome message and he hadn't heard anything from that GP practice he'd contacted about a job. "If I had wanted you to know where I had gone, I would have _told_ you. That's how friendship is supposed to work!"_

"_Oh, so now I have to pretend to be deaf, dumb, blind and ignorant to fit in with your delicate sensibilities?" Sherlock feeling put out in his turn had demanded caustically. _

"_You know what?" John had given him a murderous look. "Just piss off." _

After that, Watson had made sure to stop off in a local park or cafe before returning home from his appointments and Sherlock had carefully avoiding talking about his therapy sessions. Now he decided that what he needed was a plan of action. Pulling out Watson's laptop he began surfing the internet. It took longer than he expected, necessitating numerous visits to specialist libraries to check out relevant periodicals but as the hours passed into days he gradually satisfied himself that he was up to speed with present thinking. Once he was fully prepared he took to the sofa to wait for Watson to come home.

"John!"

He sprang to his feet as soon as the other man appeared in the doorway, carrying two bags of groceries and looking tried and slightly damp from the light autumn drizzle. Ignoring all of that Holmes immediately rushed over, seizing him by the arm and dragging him towards the couch.

"Here, you have to lie down here."

"Sherlock, I need to put the shopping away," John didn't try very hard to shake off his grip. He had learnt from experience that it was far quicker to just go along with whatever was on his flatmate's mind. "Can I at least take my coat off.?"

"Never mind the shopping, this is important," Sherlock put his hands on his shoulders and pressed him into a supine position. Mystified John lay back as Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought. "Cushions," He declared. "We need more cushions."

Dashing around the living room he piled several of the items behind John's head. Then he stood back as if to admire his handiwork and his expression creased into a frown. "Do you think we should remove your shoes?"

"I have no idea," Watson regarded him calmly. It was a little disconcerting how normal this kind of thing had become. "It might depend on what you are planning to do?"

"Not me. You," Sherlock corrected. "Well, me of course, as well, but this is mostly about you."

"It is?" Watson took in his prone position, a dreadful suspicion growing in the back of his mind. "And why exactly am I lying on the couch?"

"I thought you'd be more comfortable." Sherlock said, as if it that was obvious. Watson supposed that to him it was. After all, Holmes spent a great deal of his time sprawled on the couch. He obviously thought it was comfortable. He realised the other man was still frowning. "A blanket isn't usual is it?" Holmes asked. "I didn't find any references to blankets. Just a comfortable position, a suitable ambient temperature and perhaps some soothing music to make the patient feel more relaxed. Shall I put on some Bach?"

He started hunting for his Ipod.

"Patient?" John did not like the sound of that. "Sherlock, forget the bloody Bach. Just tell me what is going on."

"You're going to talk about your nightmares," Sherlock informed him, as he swept a collection of things off the coffee table, sat himself down and regarded Watson expectantly. "So, when did they first start?"

"Sorry, no. I am _not_ doing this." Watson sat up swinging his feet around, a scowl firmly fixed on his face, feeling entirely too much like one of Holmes numerous experiments. "I do enough talking with my therapist, thank you very much. Far too much in fact, for all the good it does."

"Then clearly she doesn't know how to ask the right questions," Sherlock pointed out.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to lie here and bare my soul just because you've got bored and there's nothing much good on the telly."

"Of course not," Holmes actually looked wounded. "Do you really imagine that I would have devoted so much of my time this last week to researching something to no purpose? But if you want to carry on as you are .."

"Wait a minute," Watson frowned. "I thought you said you were doing some private research for an important benefactor. You said you couldn't tell me anything about it because it was top secret. You even turned down Lestrade's invitation to speak at that International Conference at the Barbican to focus on it."

"I never said it was top secret, you just assumed it was because I wouldn't show it to you."

Watson stilled as he realised that he was the 'important benefactor' Sherlock had been burning the midnight oil for this last week. Every time he had tried to persuade the man to focus on his own needs and sleep for a bit or at least eat something, it had been his problems Holmes had been absorbed in. He smiled at the fact that Holmes considered him some one who had conferred a benefit in his life.

"And now ?" He enquired.

"Now I know which questions to ask," Sherlock said smugly. "And more importantly, I know you."

Watson refused to lie down again or even contemplate the Bach. So, they sat side by side on the sofa as he tried to focus on Holmes original question. He was slightly surprised to realise that it was much easier to talk about his nightmares in here, among the chaos and disorder of the increasingly familiar surroundings, than in had been in the almost Spartan surroundings of his therapist's office.

"I'm back in Afghanistan, obviously," John he began. "It's hot, there's lot of noise, voices shouting, gunfire. Then a pain in my shoulder knocks me to the ground and as I'm lying in the sand I can feel the blood, too much blood, running down my arm and soaking into the ground beneath me. I try to apply pressure to the wound but my hand starts shaking too much to get a decent grip and then a medic arrives."

He fell silent.

"And then what?" Sherlock asked.

"And then nothing," John shrugged. "I wake up."

"No," Sherlock's tone took on that cadence that said his mind was working overtime. "That doesn't make sense. This wasn't your first time under fire. It wasn't even your first time being shot."

"How could you possibly know that?" John bristled. "Did you hack into my service record?"

"Mycroft tried to show it to me, I declined," Sherlock waved that off as if it was unimportant. "You have a scar on your left bicep. Not enough to do any serious damage but unmistakably caused by a bullet wound."

"Of course I do," Watson shook his head. "Wait a minute. You talked to Mycroft about me?"

"It would be more accurate to say that Mycroft talked to me about you," Sherlock's tone was distracted as he continued to focus on the issue in hand. "When did you first have this nightmare? I mean, the very first time?"

Watson straightened slightly. He could see by Sherlock's expression that he thought he was onto something, which was interesting because this was the part that had never made any sense to John. In the heat and danger of Afghanistan when they had initially been fighting to save his life and then to keep him alive he'd been as well as could be expected. It was only once he found himself back in the safe grey drizzle of an English autumn that the nightmares had begun.

"Not until I was medevacced home." He considered that. "Mycroft told me that I missed the war."

"It's not the war you miss," Sherlock dismissed that, rising to his feet and pacing backwards and forwards as his thoughts fled onwards. "You chose to be a doctor so you could save lives, not take them. You don't shrink from violence and you're prepared to kill if you must but you have high moral principles, so you're not a man to glory in the pursuit of war for its own sake. But you have the mindset and bearing of a soldier, it was the first thing I noticed about you. Oh, of course, of course! _Why_ didn't I realise it before!"

"Anytime you'd like to share." Watson commented mildly.

"John, John, John," In one swift movement, Sherlock leapt over the coffee table to sit back beside his friend, as he positively fizzed with excitement. "I need you to think. When you're having the dream and you look up and see the Medic. What does he say?"

"How did you know he says something?" Watson blinked.

"So, he does. He speaks?" Sherlock looked elated. "I _knew _it. What does he say?"

"You were _guessing_?" Watson protested. "Damn it, Sherlock the inside of my head isn't your personal playground. This is my _life _we're talking about."

"John, focus," Sherlock reached out and put a hand on either side of his face, forcing him to meet his gaze. "This is important. Think man, what does he say?"

"I don't know," John felt his frustration rising. "I don't remember."

"Yes, you _do_," Sherlock insisted. "You don't want to think about it. You push it to the back of your mind. But it's important enough that it's been keeping you awake night after night. Of course, you remember what it is. Come on, John, tell me what he says."

Anchored by Sherlock's firm grip on his face, held fast by his piercing gaze, John forced himself to look into that corner of his mind that caused his heart to race and his hands to become clammy, futilely tossing and turning in the bedclothes until he woke with a terrified cry.

"The medic," He realised, with a shock. "I can see his face. He's me."

"Good, John, that's very good" Sherlock encouraged, not sounding the least bit surprised. "Now what does he say?"

Still slightly reeling from that revelation, how on earth had he missed that? How had his therapist missed that? Watson nonetheless tried to do as he was asked. Closing his eyes he let Holmes steady presence ground him as he surrendered himself to the memories. He felt the heat, heard the gunfire, smelt the blood, too much blood and then his own face honed into view above his prone body.

"Alright, that's it, I'm done here," John surged to his feet, knocking Holmes hands aside in the process and refusing to acknowledge the slightly wounded look his abrupt retreat put on his friend's face. "I'm going back out."

"John," Sherlock's tone managed to be both steely and compassionate. "Please believe me when I tell you that I am not doing this solely for my own intellectual curiosity, if you do not face this now you will continue to be haunted by those nightmares. Is that really what you want?"

"No," Watson stopped in the doorway, dropping his head slightly in defeat. "Of course, it's not."

"Then tell me," Sherlock's tone was as close to pleading as John had ever heard. "Please?"

John sucked in his cheeks. He could not turn around, could not face this man as he gave voice to the answer that he demanded. But he prided himself on the fact that he had sufficient moral fibre to respond honestly. Stiffening his backbone and reaching down to the depths of his courage, he swallowed hard, over his suddenly dry throat.

"It's my own face looking down at me," He admitted. "And he says, 'this man is not worth saving."

He braced himself for Holmes reaction. He had no idea what it might be. The consulting detective had proved time and again that he didn't suffer fools gladly. Often his emotional empathy was lacking if not utterly non-existent. But he had also shown a degree of respect and admiration for John's courage and tenacity. Also had had seemed boyishly pleased by Watson's admiration for his abilities and his unusual tolerance of his mercurial moods. Even to the extent that John didn't think he was imagining things when he suspected Holmes was doing his best to be nice to him.

"So, I was right all along." Sherlock actually sounded _amused _of all things.

Watson tried, he really did. He took a calming breath, he clenched and un-clenched his fists, he even looked heavenwards for divine inspiration, but at heart he was a soldier rather than a saint, and this had already pushed him to his limits so in the end he simply turned on his heel to face the other man, not caring that his rage burned in his eyes.

"What the_ hell_ ..?" He demanded.

"You're an idiot." Sherlock informed him cheerfully.

Much _too _cheerfully, Watson's eyes narrowed. Even Sherlock Holmes wasn't quite so crassly oblivious. He might set out to deliberately goad the likes of Donovan and Anderson. He might, as with Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, display an incredible lack of tact, but he was not to the type to rejoice in another's failings, unless, that person was a murder or some kind of psychotic maniac.

"I assume you have an explanation?" He asked carefully.

"Don't you see? Being injured was never the issue. You were a career soldier. As far you were concerned it was always a possibility. You also knew how effective the body is at repairing its self."

"Go on."

"It was only when you realised that your injury was serious enough to cut short your career that the nightmares started. You arrived back in England without a job, not much family to speak of, no real possessions even. Most of the friendships you had made were in the army, far too difficult to keep up with old friends back home when you're always moving around."

"So, my subconscious convinced me that I had nothing left worth living for." Watson nodded. It made a lot of sense. "And how am I an idiot, again?"

"Because there's a reason, I was looking for a flatmate," Sherlock was suddenly deadly serious. "It's the same reason I need the nicotine patches, that I take the piss out of people like Anderson, that I have occasionally used recreational drugs and that I talk to a skull more often than my own brother. And as far as I'm concerned the man who has alienated many of those problems is well worth saving."

"Right," Watson felt more than a little awkward as what the other man was trying to say gradually sunk in. As he thought back over recent weeks he realised just how much time and effort Homes had indeed put into saving him. If the world's only consulting detective had that kind of faith in him then just maybe he could face what the future might bring without being haunted by his past. "Well, um, thank you."

"You're welcome," Sherlock smiled. "Cocoa?"

"I'd love to," Watson shook his head ruefully. "But I forgot to buy any milk."


End file.
